


Darkness Surrounding Me

by lurking_in_the_background



Series: The Dannsair [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Additional Tags to Be Added, Cannibalism, Idk what I’m doing, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mild Blood and Gore, Psychological Trauma, Slavery, exotic dancing, mild violence, poor Dannsair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:34:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21799192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lurking_in_the_background/pseuds/lurking_in_the_background
Summary: He was brought to the realm of goblins because the King found him pretty. He abhorred the idea that his life would revolve around the Goblin King’s desires. Now, he begins to wonder if that would be better than the pits the King has left him in.And if the King will still want him after all that has been done to him...
Series: The Dannsair [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1570828
Kudos: 27





	Darkness Surrounding Me

Hands had gripped his hair, long and silver in the scaly green hand of a mounted goblin, who had sneered at him. He’d accepted that death was coming. It was better than the alternative: eternal slavery. If he had to choose, he’d die.

”Not that one!” came a clear, demanding voice. “I want to get a good look at him, first!” He froze. No, no, _no,_ he’d already accepted death! He wasn’t going to be turned into a slave, some pet for a goblin lord to show off! He wriggled in his captor’s grip, trying to free himself. To no avail.

A hand on his jaw forced his face up, and held him still. “My, what a pretty little thing you are,” the goblin above him cooed. “Such a lovely little elf!” This one wasn’t grotesque or hideous like the rest; while he was still scaled and green-grey, and had yellow eyes, he had more the bearing and look of an orc, with broad musculature and thick coarse black hair. A gold crown rested on his brow. This goblin made him tremble. This goblin was the King.

”Do you want to keep this one, my liege?” the goblin holding him by the hair asked. “We can take him to the pits and have him...” the goblin glanced at him and licked his lips obscenely. “...domesticated.” He bucked in the iron-fisted grip holding his hair. He didn’t know what it meant to be ‘domesticated’, but he had the horrible suspicion it involved cocks in his mouth and arse...

“I have a different idea, captain,” the King said, and took him from his captor. “I am in need of a new Dannsair. He’s perfect.” He was set in front of the King on his mount- some unholy cross between a mole and a horse -and was held in place by an arm across his arms and chest. They rode off, back towards the goblin camp.

————

The King set him on the ground in his tent, away from the other tents in the army, but still in the middle of the camp. “Running won’t avail you here, pretty,” the King told him conversationally. “I have guards all over the camp. If you run, they will catch you, but they might not give you back. They might choose to keep you, and have you domesticated, and I don’t think you want that, do you?” He shook his head vehemently. No, he most certainly did not want that. “I thought not,” the King said, smirking slightly at him. “Wh-what do you want with me?” he asked the King quietly, hating how terrified he sounded.

Laughing, the King crouched in front of him. “I don’t want you to be domesticated the way they want you to be. No, no, my idea of ‘domestication’ is having you as my pretty little dancer.” The King stroked his hair, letting the silver fall through his fingers, like one would stroke a particularly frightened animal, or a new pet. “I don’t know any dances,” he whimpered, recoiling from the touch. The King only smiled and pulled him closer, so he couldn’t move away.

”You’ll learn. That’s what the pits are for.” He felt a kiss pressed to his forehead, and he whimpered again. The King’s fingers gently squeezed his, big clawed green scaled ones around his tiny long white ones. “Don’t worry, pretty, I won’t let anyone take you.” The grip on his fingers turned crushing. “You belong to me, now.”

—————

The King kept him in his tent that night, and the next night he was sent off with the other newly-enslaved elves to the slave pits, albeit with special instructions not to attempt to domesticate him.

The goblins who handled them hit them and pinched them. At one point, once they reached the goblin caves, they were made to strip naked and driven through the tunnels to the pits deep inside the mountains. Cries and wails filled the air, and he was crying along with them. They were pushed into the pits one after the other, naked and afraid.

Then they were left alone in the dark.

——————

He dimly remembered the goblin pits. It was a blur of horrible memories, of reeking corpses and sweaty bodies pressed too close to him, being horribly abused, hit, kicked, bit. He remembered being held down and breached by something; he wasn’t entirely sure what. It had been painful.

He didn’t dwell on it too much.

He remembered being so hungry he had been willing to eat the one of dead bodies in the pits with him. Had _tried_. But the overseers hadn’t let him. They didn’t want him to get sick and die, they said. But he was dying _now_ , he pleaded. He needed food. They gave him a fresh body. _Much_ healthier, they’d laughed, as he ate it, ignoring the fact the body was still warm, or that it twitched slightly. It was _food_.

He remembered being so thirsty that he’d drank his own urine, the blood from a corpse, anything. The guards had only been _too_ eager to help. He didn’t think about that much either.

He had been hit, pinched, licked, bitten. None of him was safe. He’d cried in the deepest recesses of the pits, hidden by the growing piles of bodies, careful not to make a sound. If he made noise after a certain time, the guards would come and find him, then they’d punish him, because he’d made too much noise; he’d disturbed their sleep. Slaves weren’t allowed to disturb their masters, they’d remind him. So he made sure he was silent in his misery.

It had been so long since the King had left him here. He assumed the King no longer wanted him. At this point, he would have danced whatever the King wanted in nothing at all, would have lain beneath him, _anything_ , to end this. But the King never came. And why would he, he thought miserably. He was filthy and broken, marred in every way. He wasn’t pretty anymore. Who would want him now? _He_ certainly wouldn’t.

And then, the unthinkable happened: the King came back. He remembered the rage written all over his face as he examined every inch of his new Dannsair’s naked flesh; at the livid purple and green bruises on his arms, legs, face, everywhere; at the thin, sickly countenance he now possessed, emancipated and starved; at the way he clung to the King, terrified. He didn’t know his own name now. Now, he was simply, ‘slave’. A number.

The King didn’t like that.

The ones who had harmed and violated him were punished severely, some executed. He didn’t quite remember. All he remembered was being stroked gently, being fed good food, real food, being given clothes to wear. Being told he was safe now, and that he would be better soon. He believed it.

For a while, all he did was eat and rest. That was what he was told to do. Slowly, his bruises healed, and he became less starved-looking. He didn’t flinch at every touch, or drop to the floor to beg for forgiveness for every little thing. The King told him not to, and he tried his best to obey.

He didn’t want to go back to the pits, after all.

The King had him instructed in dancing, and watched him from time to time. He was praised constantly for his dances, and he was pleased, though a little voice in his head whispered that he ought to be ashamed of himself for his behavior; for acting like a pet who had learned a new trick.

He ignored it. The voice got him in trouble sometimes. He didn’t want trouble. Trouble meant the pits.

He didn’t want to go back to there.

When the King deemed him ready, he fit a little golden collar around his neck, and attached a thin chain to it like a leash. He was dressed in fine clothes and a thin veil, though they showed more than he would like. It made him nervous. But it’s what the King wanted. It’s what his master wanted, he reminded himself. It’s what his master wanted, so that’s what he wore, and he didn’t complain. He let his master lead him through the tunnels to the throne room. It was full of people, goblins and their own slaves.

There, his leash was removed, and his master pet his hair gently. “Dance for us, my pretty Dannsair,” his master ordered him, and he was happy to oblige. Even though there were more people here to witness him dance than just his master.

He began to dance, his hips swaying to the beat of the drums, his feet stamping out a rhythm on the cold stone floor. His sash fluttered behind him, flowing like on a breeze. His legs were barely covered by the loose wrappings around his hips, and now the were fully on display for all to see. He was glad he was wearing a veil, translucent though it was; the purple-tinted fabric hid his embarrassed flush well. His hair swished about him in a silver cloud as he twirled, and he was glad, for it at times covered him slightly.

He reached up to his chest, over his nipples, and stroking them in time to the swaying of his hips and the now frenzied beat of the drums, tipping his head back like he’d been taught. He brought them down his sides, letting his fingers ghost along his abdomen, trace his navel, until they rested on his hips, and his head came back down to touch his chin to his chest. He glanced at his master, and was pleased to see he was enjoying his dance.

He brought his hands up above his head, and dropped to his knees, sweeping his hands in front of him, bringing a leg out to the side until it was fully extended. He bent forward so he was prostrate on the ground. The drums ceased with a resounding crash, and he lay there, trying to catch his breath. His feet hurt, his lungs ached, and he trembled from the exhaustion in his limbs.

Applause reached his ears, from his entire audience, and he looked up from the floor to beam at his master, who smiled back indulgently. “Such a lovely job, Dannsair,” his master praised him, and he felt his heart soar. He had done good. Good meant he was pleased, and that meant he didn’t have to go back to the dark places far beneath him.

He didn’t hesitate when his master patted his lap; he happily seated himself on his master’s legs. He let his master hold him and kiss his fingertips and his nose. “Good boy,” his master murmured in his ear, his warm breath tickling the point of it. That little voice came back, indignant at being treated like a pet. He ignored it. He was the King’s Dannsair. He had pleased his master.

He was a good boy, and that was what mattered.

Good boys didn’t get sent to the pits.

**Author's Note:**

> So, ‘the Dannsair’ literally translates to ‘the Dancer’ in Scotts-Gaelic. I happen to really like Scotts-Gaelic, that’s why it’s there.


End file.
